Barefoot in the Sand (8 page)

A construction worker passed Lacey on his way out, giving her a once-over and zeroing in on her chest.

“I’ll meet with you,” he said with a wink.

So much for the “too professional” blouse Zoe had mocked and Lacey thought underplayed her boobs. Those suckers did not underplay easily.

Clay Walker was already a professional risk; she didn’t want to encourage a personal one as well. So she kept telling herself that if he got the job, if he proved himself to her, and if they had to work side by side for a year or more, she would just ignore the fact that he turned her into a quivering bowl of Jell-O.

“Bet I know who you’re meeting with.” Charity situated her bony backside on her stool, smug and cocky.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you did, Char.” There were two forms of news delivery on this island: the
Mimosa Gazette
and Charity Grambling. “Forty dollars of regular unleaded,” she said, holding out her money.

Charity took the cash and lifted partway off the stool to peer over the counter and get the full view of the white slacks Lacey had switched to when Zoe had called her other choice mom jeans.

“You’re going up to that mess in white pants?”

News
and
editorial.

“Yep.” Lacey met Charity’s judgmental gaze.

The door to the back office flipped open and Patience Vail, who only answered to the nickname Patti, ambled into the room.

“Lacey’s got a meeting,” Charity said, pressing way too much emphasis on the word. “With
someone
.”

Patti lifted her dark brows. “That same someone you were practically licking down at the Pelican last night?”

Oh, boy. This actually could be fun if it weren’t true. “There was no licking, Patti.” Lacey gave an obviously impatient look at the cash register. “You know, until you press that button, I can’t pump the gas.”

“I know.” Charity situated herself on the stool. “I gotta tell your mama, Lacey. You know that, don’t you?”

Lacey rolled her eyes and almost laughed at the warning, like she was a teenager caught shoplifting in the Super Min or something. “My mother’s up in New York at my brother’s place, Charity.”

“I know where she is. We’re Facebook friends.”

“Well, no need to report anything, Charity, because last time I checked, I was thirty-six years old.” About to be thirty-seven, but no need to give them that ammo.

Patti and Charity shared a look. “He isn’t,” they said simultaneously. “Bet he isn’t thirty yet.”

Now she couldn’t help laughing. “Did you girls get a picture? ’Cause then you can post that on Facebook, too.” She started to back away, but Charity’s inch-long crimson nails lingered over the computer key, holding Lacey captive. “Any minute now, Charity. I’m kind of in a hurry.”

But Patti put a hand on Charity’s arm, further stalling things. “Maybe she
is
the one.”

What one?

Charity considered the question, eyed Lacey suspiciously, then shook her head. “Nah, she’d never do something that stupid.”

“You’re right, she wouldn’t,” Patti said, like they weren’t talking about her in the third person.

Lacey refused to take the bait, though.

“ ’Course not, Pat,” Charity continued. “Lacey wouldn’t do anything
stupid
with that old house from her grandfather, who was one of our daddy’s
dearest friends
and, of course, one of
the founders of Mimosa Key
.” She practically breathed fire on the last words. “Or did you forget that your grandparents were pioneers who had a vision for this place? A vision, Lacey. And it included some ironclad rules of the road. Do you know what they are?”

Lacey shifted from one foot to the other, the pressure of being late for a ten o’clock meeting in Barefoot Bay almost as weighty as her curiosity, and a growing concern. What was the issue here? “Not sure where you’re going with this, Charity, but I would really appreciate if you’d free the gas pump so I’m not late for my meeting.”

“With an architect?” Charity prompted.

She looked from one to the other, knowing that a lie would be discovered and the truth would be broadcast to the next thirty customers. “Yes.”

“Uh-huh.” Charity nodded, slowly, her lips curled in an “I knew it” smirk. “My Gracie said she met an architect in the Pelican last night, and when she and Glo left, you all but fell into his lap.”

“Not exactly.” She pointed to the register. “Please?”

Patti, a much bigger woman than her sister, worked her girth around the counter to give Lacey a hard look. “He said he might be building an inn of some kind.”

Lacey just stared at her, saying nothing, reality dawning. Grace and Ron Hartgrave owned the Fourway Motel, and no one in the extended family run by these two matriarchs would like the competition. But they couldn’t stop it.

Could they?

She cleared her throat and met Patti’s beady gaze. “Nothing is set in concrete,” she said. “I’m looking at all the possibilities.” Damn, she wanted to have more conviction than that, but these two, they were not to be messed with.

“Well, look at this possibility.” Charity whipped out a binder and slapped it on the counter.
The Building Code and Bylaws of Mimosa Key
was typed across the top. Literally typed. By a typewriter. Probably before Lacey was born.

Charity flipped open the cover and pointed to a page already marked with a bright pink Post-it note. “Says right here that no structure that contains more than five bedrooms can be built on Mimosa Key.”

Lacey almost choked. “That code was written in the 1950s, Charity. It—”

“Still holds true,” Patti interjected. “You don’t see any six-bedroom houses on this island.”

“Which is the problem,” Lacey shot back.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if we would let some people build big houses, we could be the next Jupiter Island or take some of the money that gets poured into Naples’ real estate. Mimosa Key is ripe for big money, and I can’t imagine who on the town council would be opposed to having more tourist dollars on this island.”

They both stared at her, but it was Charity whose eyes narrowed. “So it’s true. You’re trying to ruin this island.”

She fought an exasperated sigh. “No, Charity. I’m
looking for ways to expand it, make it better, bring in jobs, and—”

“We don’t need any more jobs,” Patti insisted. “We want it just like it is, young lady.”

“Oh, now I’m young. A minute ago I was too old for the man I was talking to last night.”

“Don’t you get snippy,” Charity warned.

“That’s right,” Patti chimed in. “Because your Granny Dot and her dear Theodore would roll over in their graves if they knew what you were planning to do with that beautiful old home they built for you when they founded this island.”

She
didn’t even know what she was planning to do, how could Granny?

“And that home is gone,” Lacey said softly, hating that the loss she felt could be heard in her voice. “And so are my grandparents.”

“Then you should respect their memory,” Charity said.

But Granny Dot always wanted a B and B. She’d been the one who’d planted the idea in Lacey’s head years ago. But Lacey wasn’t about to share that with these two old witches.

“You don’t have your facts straight, Patti,” Lacey said. “And you’re jumping the gun. I’m not sure at all what I’m going to build on my property. For the most part, I’m just happy Ashley and I survived.”

Charity sniffed. Patti crossed her arms. So much for the sense of community and helpfulness that had arisen after the storm. But for one minute, in the face of expressions that looked a lot like her mother’s most disapproving scowl, Lacey considered changing her mind.

Was this dream worth getting the doyens of Mimosa
Key riled up and ready to wreck her life? Was it worth fighting for?

Behind her, the bell dinged with a new customer and all Lacey could do was exhale with relief. At least now she could pump her gas.

“Mornin’, Strawberry.”

The words went into her ear, down her spine, spun through her belly, and gave her knees a little push.

“Strawberry?” Charity choked.

“It is you, isn’t it?” He put two strong and solid hands on her shoulders and slowly turned her around. “Yeah, I’d recognize that hair anywhere.” He closed his eyes and sniffed. “And the scent.”

Oh, Charity ought to have a field day with that. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m addicted to gas-station coffee, so I thought I’d get us some.”

Us.

“Introduce your friend, Lacey.” Charity tapped impatiently on the counter. “As if we don’t already know who he is.”

Lacey gave him a secret eye roll and silent warning. “Clay, this is Charity Grambling and Patti Vail, sisters and owners of the Shell Gas Station and Super Mini Mart Convenince Store, also known as the Super Min. Ladies, this is Clay Walker.”

“The architect,” Patti said. “We’ve heard
all
about you.” She threw a smile at Lacey that gave the distinct impression that
all
they’d heard came right from Lacey herself.

“Mornin’, ladies.”

Charity’s gaze wandered up and down Clay’s T-shirt and jeans. “You don’t look like an architect.”

“Looks are deceiving,” he said, stepping toward the coffee station. “Man, that smells good.”

“So are you rebuilding Blue Horizon?”

He gave Lacey a questioning look.

“That’s what my grandfather called the house,” she said, even though she suspected his unspoken question was more along the lines of
Am
I rebuilding it?

“If you are, you better familiarize yourself with this very important piece of historical documentation.” Charity lifted the binder. “We have rules against certain-sized buildings and nothing can be, you know, gaudy.” Charity dragged out the word and wiggled her fingers. Like those talons weren’t the gaudiest things that ever came out of Beachside Beauty.

“I’m not building anything gaudy,” Clay said as he filled two large cups.

Patti stepped forward. “ ’Course you couldn’t build that big a place. Your land isn’t that sizable, after all. Unless you’re planning to buy Everham’s and that plot on the other side of yours.”

The Tomlinsons’. Yep, that was exactly what Lacey was planning to do. But she just gave a noncommittal shrug.

“That’d be quite a piece of land if you pulled that off,” Patti said, proving that speculation was all she needed to turn something into fact.

At the coffee machine, Clay glanced at Lacey. “How do you take your coffee?” he asked, their eyes connecting in silent communication.

“Cream and sugar.” She could kiss him for not responding to Patti. Oh, she could kiss him just for standing there like a golden, gorgeous, glorious god, too, but
mostly she loved that he didn’t take the bait these two were throwing out.

“We’re just counting on our Lacey to do the right thing,” Charity said. “Seeing as she’s part of the very special family of people who built this island for the distinct reason that they wanted to avoid the hellhole of high-rises over in Naples. We want things to stay just the way they’ve always been.”

“Change is good,” Clay said, giving Lacey one of the coffees and placing a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “Can I have some?”

Charity didn’t move. “Change isn’t good for Mimosa Key and we don’t need some big-time architects building eyesores on Barefoot Bay.”

“I’m not big-time, and I’m not building an eyesore,” he said, putting a hand on the book. “But if you’d like, I’d be happy to give you some ideas about how you could make the elevation of this little convenience store even more attractive, and then when the nice people come to stay at Lacey’s new place, they’ll all stop here on their way in and out to buy your”—he sipped the coffee and nodded approvingly—“fantastic coffee.”

Charity yanked the book away and pushed his twenty back. “The coffee’s on the house.”

“Much obliged.” He toasted her with the cup. “For the coffee and the history lesson.”

He shouldered open the door, holding it for Lacey, who walked into the sunshine and let out a long, slow breath.

Clay dipped his head and whispered in her ear as the door closed behind them, “You gonna let two little old batshit crazy ladies be a roadblock?”

“No.” Maybe. He didn’t know how much power they wielded on this island.

“Good.” He put his arm around her, pulling her into rock-solid muscle in a dizzyingly casual and intimate move. “Now, let’s go look at your property and see how many more people we can piss off.”